


Tomorrow We Wake

by amarmeme



Series: Lady Heroes [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Aftermath, Attempt at Humor, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Fools in Love, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Light Angst, Post-Endgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-07 20:58:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6823852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarmeme/pseuds/amarmeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke's still not ready to commit to what comes next after defeating Orsino and Meredith. Instead, her immediate focus falls to a newly homeless prince. Sebastian once soothed a distraught Hawke after the death of her mother, and she's going to try her best to return the favor. Though Hawke's no Chantry Sister.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let it burn your insides

Hawke was, for the first time in her life, left scrambling for words. All of Kirkwall knew her for her quips, somehow tolerated her presence despite them. Even when a situation appeared at its bleakest, house-sized spiders falling like hail or darkspawn clogging a deep roads exit, there was always something to jest about. Now all her wits had left her.

The brain Marian Hawke so relied on to get her out of impossible situations couldn't make sense of the two sights before her: templars on their knees instead of at her throat, and a creepy statue that stood where a living, breathing Meredith had just been. She couldn't decide which was more bizarre, let alone what to say about it. Luckily, her two most unflappable friends were still flapping their jaws, filing in the giant pause in the air.

“Do you think she’ll even fit through the door?” Isabela sauntered over to the frozen red woman, trailing a finger over one of the arms.

“Shit, Rivaini, you get knocked in the head?” Varric asked. “The woman’s still the same size as she was before.”

Isabela blew air between her teeth and waved her other hand absently at Varric, who was peering at the Meredith statue from afar. “Yes, but now someone has to carry her.” She was still running her hand along the hard lines of the figure. “I wouldn’t mind getting hauled in by a couple of strapping men.”

The conversation was just peculiar enough to drive away the templars. Knight Captain Cullen, or now commander, awkwardly nodded at Hawke and turned on his heel abruptly, as if the Meredith statue would be her problem if he moved quick enough. One half of the quandary eliminated, Hawke blinked away the mental fog.

“What are you on about?”

“Rivaini thinks we should set up Meredith in the back room at the Hanged Man. You know, help her fleece people at Wicked Grace. Something tells me they’d piss themselves before trying to pull a card out of their sleeve with this watching.”

Hawke doubted anyone really wanted to move the former commander, solidified by the red lyrium idol she’d used to create her sword. She was now a red skeleton on its knees, forever howling in regret. The conversation was a gesture of kindness, and Hawke cracked a weary smile Varric’s way in recompense. It was hard to believe all they’d endured in a day.

She turned away from the statue to see how her other companions were faring, too stunned to have checked before. It was a tough fight, and if the commander hadn’t tuned into skeletor there was a great possibility things would have turned out differently. Shame pricked her insides -- what kind of a leader forgets to look after their people?

No one had noticed. Aveline and Donnick were conferring with one another, close enough to whisper. Merrill picked bits of crumbled statue from her tunic, Fenris was stiff and grave, resting on his greatsword but that was just as well, and Sebastian -- Hawke wasn’t sure where he’d gone. She scanned the damaged and shell-shocked Gallows for him, the shiny white armor should have easily given him away. In the darkest corner she finally spied him, motionless behind a half-crushed guardian statue, head tilted up towards the darkening sky. It was the direction of the chantry, or where it would have been the day before. Instead of its towers looming in the distance, smoke stretched towards the heavens, blotting out the stars.

“What do you say, Hawke? Should we drown ourselves in ale and begin spreading the tale of our heroics?”

Hawke swiveled to face Varric, startled by his voice. In that moment she’d forgotten herself. It was all still too strange, too fresh. She’d watched the chantry explode, she’d killed someone who had once been a friend, she’d fought against a grand enchanter turned demon and statues that came alive and a woman who’d hardened before she could strike a final blow. She looked down to her hands, bloodied and blistered in places where she’d gripped her sword so hard she thought she’d burst or it would under the pressure. She’d kept on swinging and swinging, an ache inside her never settling as each foe came out of thin air.

“Not tonight, Varric. Tomorrow though.” Hawke plastered on her most reassuring smile, and received an all-knowing expression that only the closest of friends shared. “Take them with you,” she urged quietly, tipping her head towards Merrill and Fenris. Both of them were standing awkwardly apart, as usual. No tension resolved there, though they fought side by side easy enough.

Varric noded, then loudly proclaimed the first round was on him. Isabela gathered Merrill to her side in a one-armed hug and Aveline made to speak, but bit back the question when Donnick steered her away. Hawke mouthed “tomorrow” at her.

Fenris stopped at Hawke’s side before following the others. “It seems we are victorious.”

“It seems that way.” Hawke agreed. “But why do I feel like we’ve all lost?”

Fenris grunted in agreement, shifting from foot to foot, as if he was unsure if what he had to say next was worth the discomfort. “One of us has lost more than most.” Hawke flinched, then crossed and uncrossed her arms as he continued. “The mansion... it is not a place for anyone tonight. I will stay at the Hanged Man.” Fenris’s gaze was directed towards Sebastian. “You have room?”

Hawke could have laughed or cried at the question. Of course she did, and of course she would take him in. Out of all her companions, Fenris was the only one who was truly friends with Sebastian. And the only one who hadn’t immediately questioned her about her pseudo-relationship agreement. The two men had confided in one another, and shared an ease in talking about matters much more serious than Hawke gave credit to. While Varric couldn’t stand how nice Sebastian was, Fenris seemed to appreciate the positivity. Hawke thought the difference had to do with Fenris not minding the advice, and Varric being resentful that he wasn’t the one always giving it. But no matter how anyone else felt about the prince-come-brother, Hawke’s feelings were solidly planted hopes and wishes she nurtured with care.

“You needn't ask,” she said. “But thank you for doing it.”

“Tomorrow, then.” Fenris nodded respectfully, then hoisted his massive sword over a shoulder. He treaded in the direction the others had went, gliding across the abandoned battleground.

Hawke heaved her own heavy blade into its sheath across her back. It weighed her down, but that pressure had always felt good, grounding her to those around her. The world around her. Hawke maybe was a bit of a card, but she did care. Maybe too much. Varric would call it her fatal flaw and then probably write a parable about it. The question everyone wanted to ask and the one she was too raw to answer, could wait another day. Tonight her friend needed her, and it was a great convenience to put off one problem for another.

Sebastian didn't notice her approach, which was alarming. _Or maybe he's ignoring me._ She stood near enough to reach out and close the distance with her fingers, was itching to do so but unsure of the next part. Hawke's presence was about as comforting as an alley cat to a chantry mouse.  
  


* * *

 

After her mother died, Hawke reigned over empty spaces. She was unmoored, moving from room to room looking at her mother’s things and trying to remember what, if anything, she was supposed to do with them. Did they stay, where no one would use them? Was disposing of them a dishonor to her memory?

Carver's death had not been easier, but they'd been on the run. The only items to manage were confined to what he'd slung across his back: a blade and a change of clothes. Mother's things were a source of life and love and Hawke wasn't equipped to handle it on her own. With Carver there had been mother and Bethany. When Bethany joined the Grey Wardens, a certain death of its own, there'd been her mother. But with her mother’s death, it left only Hawke. Just Marian weaving through a too-large house.

Her friends had come, but it didn't soothe the ache, rather rubbed it raw. Their presence reminded of all the adventures and challenges, all the times her mother had been alone. It was the worst with Varric, which pained Hawke on an entirely different plane. Guilt was a feeling she wasn't fully acquainted with, but it seeped into her bones nonetheless and stayed there past its welcome for many weeks upon months.

If the others scathed, Sebastian was a salve.

They’d known each other, but Sebastian just wasn’t around as often as the rest. Not because she’d disliked him, no, it had _always_ been the opposite for Hawke. Leandra had approved of what her daughter had done for the man -- avenging family. And her mother’s approval was as important to her as breathing or keeping a sharply honed blade. Sebastian wasn’t around for reasons Hawke couldn’t rightly explain to herself without sounding like a love-struck girl.

Though Hawke didn't think much of the Maker or his bride, Sebastian had been trained in the cloth, had lost his own family twice over too. He made it his business to console and came over frequently. He'd take whatever Hawke was clutching wildly in her hands and set it down with care, moving her to somewhere they could sit. He'd not ask how she was doing, that was obvious enough to see, but would fill her in on the good things she was missing. For without her permission, the world still moved on. She’d mostly just listen, but every so often he’d ask her opinion in that smooth brogue and she’d be caught off guard, finding she did have something to say about newly freed slaves or orphans who now had warm clothing for the winter ahead. He reminder her, in the most unobtrusive way, that there was goodness happening, and Hawke did want to be a part of that change. 

Almost three months after her mother’s death, Sebastian came to visit with a jug of Starkhaven whiskey. He’d sat on the settee across from the fireplace in the large room she used as an office, placing the alcohol on the table in front of him along with two glasses. No matter how often they’d talked lately, it still struck her to be with Sebastian without his blinding armor. This time his clothing was close enough to the thing that Hawke cracked a small smile: dove grey breeches with a bright, white shirt. The shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, which she couldn’t help but notice as he poured two fingers of amber liquid into each of the glasses. She was mesmerized by his bronze skin; bared hands and forearms. She knew him well now, without his bracers or the stark face of Andraste judging where she gazed.

He handed her a glass and Hawke sat. “What are we toasting to?” she asked. 

“I didn’t find you with a hairbrush crushed between your fingers. Or the last time I visited either.” He gave her a sideways smile and raised his glass.

“That’s-- oh.” Hawke furrowed her brow. “I’d say that’s a waste of a drink, but no such thing. Although, terrible reason.”

Sebastian lowered his hand to rest on his knee. “We have a tradition in Starkhaven.” He paused for Hawke’s smile, she’d heard a lot about what passed for Starkhaven traditions in the last few weeks. Granted one, he continued. “When a loved one passes to the Maker’s side the family gathers around a jug just like this one. It may not be the first night, or the next week, but a time when they all agree to let the spirit and the weight on their hearts go. It’s hard to do, but necessary for those left alive. They’ll gather in the home of the departed and raise a toast to safe passage and promise to seek them once they themselves reach the Maker’s side.”

“And you think I’m ready to send my mother’s spirit to the Maker at last.”

“You aren't clutching her possessions like a once-lost child. I’d say it’s as good a time as any.” 

Hawke considered it for a moment, doing a quick check of her heart and finding it still sore. She imagined it would always be a little bit, as if too much damage had been done over the years leaving it weakened. But part of her was ready for that glass, ready to feel the burn and embrace the pain as something worth the reward. Admitting it still felt like betrayal, but she had to let her mother go. 

“Alright,” she said. “Do I do anything?” 

“Say what comes from your heart.”

Hawke was a joker at heart, even when that heart was wounded. Her mother had liked her humor, said it reminded her of their father. “To Leandra Hawke. The best damn woman in all of Thedas and the one I'll always love the most. May there be single adult women for you to worry over for eternity and single men for you to match them with. I'll always remember your last words to me, and try to live up to them.” Hawke clinked Sebastian's glass and threw the liquid down her throat. It scorched her insides, and she relished the discomfort.

Sebastian gathered up their glasses and placed them on the table. He leaned against the back of the settee and watched the flames dance in the fireplace. It was in respect of silence, and Hawke wanted to kiss him for it. For it all, always. She touched his forearm instead, the warmth of it running hotter inside her than the whiskey's burn. 

“Thank you.”

He turned to look at her, the bluest eyes she’d ever seen meeting hers, and covered her hand with his own. “Anything for you, Hawke.” 

That statement swirled around in her brain and she had to clamp her jaw shut before something inappropriate burst out. She switched tacks before she could turn into Isabela. 

“What do the families do afterwards? Other than keep drinking?” 

His smile was a little bandage on her heart. “They go to sleep and when they wake, they live full lives.” 

“So tomorrow--” 

“You’ll return to the world and the rest of us will endeavor to keep up.”  
  


* * *

 

Sebastian had soothed Hawke as she imagined one would a horse. Go slowly, talk softly and have confidence in taking the lead. She knew as much about horses as she did consoling people, which amounted to a fat pile of nothing. She had no idea of where to start, but felt certain that anything was better than letting him stand in the Gallows all night. 

“Sebastian?” She could hear the wavering uncertainty in her own voice. Smooth.

She tried calling to him again, with no response. Hawke wasn’t always the most patient of people, you could add it to her list of fatal flaws.

“Hey!” she shouted. “I know you haven’t gone deaf in the last hour. You heard me just fine when I asked for opinions earlier.”  

She closed the distance between them and clasped his shoulder, shaking it just the slightest. Sebastian turned his head at the contact, his eyes were red, whether from tiredness or tears she couldn’t tell. His cheek and neck on the left side was covered in blood. He hadn’t come out of the day as pristine as usual. Blood had flowed from a deep gash under his left eye and splattered on to his armor, red rivulets crossing the breastplate. The metal plates were scuffed, enough that a few silver threads gleamed where the white coating was worn away. His one pauldron was dented as well, and she hoped nothing had happened to his shoulder. 

“Sebastian,” Hawke said firmly. “They’ve all left. It's time we go.”

He turned and saw she was right, eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. He then dipped his head in the barest of nods.

“You can stay with me.”

His shoulders raised as if he was about to protest, then slumped with resignation. He'd been about to tell her it wasn't necessary, then realized it was. For the first time in his life in Kirkwall, he couldn't turn for Elthina for counsel or shelter. Hawke swallowed thickly, she couldn’t let her strong facade crack now of all times.

Given that he'd yet to say a word to her, Hawke didn't wait before setting off. He'd follow her, and then perhaps by the time they'd arrive at her home he would find his voice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote a thing! I love Hawke/Sebastian and always wondered what would happen after the final battle. If you kill Anders (always, sorry), Sebastian stays by your side to fight and clearly has no where to go that night. Plus, every meager possession he had stashed away in the Chantry is blown to bits. I imagine an enterprising, love-struck Hawke would take care of that problem the best she could.
> 
> Originally this was just supposed to be a one shot, but I got carried away. For never posting before, I find I have a lot to say about these two.


	2. Where's your head at?

It took a long while for Hawke and Sebastian to reach the Amell estate. Flying debris and spreading fires had caused damage across the city, and while Aveline’s guard was doing their best to regain order, chaos and confusion still throbbed in the streets. Hawke found herself stopping to free people from fallen buildings or acting as the intermediary of squabbles and minor skirmishes. Templars were doing their part alongside the guard, but the assistance wasn’t always wanted. 

“For fuck’s sake!”

Hawke groused as she hauled a burly man off a templar. His simple clothing was covered in ash and sweat, and he fought against her hold. The young templar he opposed had been helping two members of the city guard free a woman from the clutches of a collapsed beam. One end of the beam blazed brightly while the other pinned her leg to the ground. The woman didn’t wail, but bit her lip to bleeding. 

“I don’t need one of them touchin’ her,” said the burly man. “Bad enough as it is without her being taken away.”

Hawke shook his collar, and wanted to scream. It was not lost on her that what the city needed now was a slew of healers working in tandem with the templars. “He’s trying to help. What are you doing besides acting like an idiot?” 

“She can do a bit of, you know--.” He paused and spoke so only Hawke could hear. “I’m not about to give her up for bein’ able to light a fire easier than most.”

Hawke slackened her grip. “Look around, it’s not going to happen.” The woman’s leg was now freed, and she was heaved up between a guard and the templar for support. “We’ve reached a one day only moratorium on mutual hatred to deal with city-wide destruction.” 

She released the foolish man and he rushed to take up the woman’s arm from the templar. The two men didn’t look at each other, and the templar didn’t linger to exchange anything else.

Hawke blew a strand of hair out of her eyes, and wiped her forehead with the back of a hand. They were minutes away from Hightown and Sebastian was still uncharacteristically solemn and withdrawn. He leaned against a crumbled wall looking lost and ill, his dark skin washed out pale. The only color that remained was a dark red where the battle wound wept. Hawke had never seen him turn down an opportunity to be charitable, but it was likely shock that kept him from jumping in alongside her. She worried he was more seriously injured than she could outwardly tell and hastened along to her home, vowing to stop for no one else.

When they finally reached the estate it was empty. Bodhan, Sandal and Orana had heeded her advice and taken Biscuit with them to the tunnel running between Anders’ clinic and the house. Now she fervently hoped they hadn't gone all the way to the mage’s place.

Hawke had to stop herself from ruminating over Anders, turning the day’s events over and over in her head. Yes, she had killed before. Yes, he was deserving of some punishment for what he’d done. Still, the bitter taste of it made her stomach churn with anger and a tinge of sadness. There was no place for doubt. The mage had made her implicit in his act of terror, and now he was dead. Despite how it played on repeat whenever she wasn’t forcing it out, there was no benefit in hashing it over.

Inside at last, Hawke removed her sword and left it on the rack inside the door. It needed to be cleaned, but blade maintenance was far from her mind. Swords could be replaced. Sebastian was still holding his bow tightly. She attempted to take it from him, but he didn't release his grip.

“Well, keep it then,” she said, tutting as she walked into the kitchen. “I'm filthy and while sleeping is the first thing I want to do, Orana will kill me in my bed if I don't get this grime off first.”

An unstoppable force, her mouth was. Except now she halted in her tracks, wishing to erase the last few words. They were a bit too close to reality and she cringed. Sebastian said nothing, but that was hardly unexpected. At the very least, he was looking less distraught than he was on the streets.

Hawke found a match and struck it against the large iron stove. She lit a candelabrum and then leaned against the table in the center of the room to begin stripping off her heavy armor. She’d removed her gauntlets quickly after the battle, throwing them down in order to inspect her blistered, seeping hands. They came out of her belt now, and she tossed them onto the table with a great thud.

Sebastian didn’t budge as she undid the rest, and instead stared off into the dark recesses of the house. He didn't even attempt to chide her halfheartedly when a clasp stuck and Hawke used a few choice words to describe the Maker. All of the gear was piled on top of the great wooden table, which Orana wouldn’t care for either, but Hawke wanted to clean meticulously the next day. She would pull up a stool and get lost in the motion of cleaning and greasing and shining.

Unburdened of the physical aspect of being Champion, Hawke lit a fire, placed two pails of water over it to boil, and began the arduous process of hauling water to the tub. The few heated pails of water would make for a bearable bath. She wouldn't admit it to anyone but Isabela, but long soaks after battles were her favorite luxury.

Halfway up the staircase with the candelabrum in one hand and a bucket in the other, she realized Sebastian was following her. He had a pail of water too, and his bow was strapped to his back. She gave him a small smile and hurried the last few steps and into her room. The tub sat before the fireplace, and had a small table beside it for resting a glass or book. It was a large, creamy porcelain tub, with talon-claw feet and room for at least two. Unfortunately, the resplendent thing had only been used by its owner so far. Upon emptying her vessels into the tub, she extended a hand backwards, expecting to have a handle placed there. When none came she turned to find Sebastian still standing in the hallway.

“You must be joking -- you made it all the way up, might as well bring it in. You won't burst into flames just by being in a woman's boudoir.”

He gave her a dithering look that made her feel much better about how he was faring. After a long pause, filled no doubt with internal debate, he joined her side then poured the water in himself. He made for the door to get another bucket, or maybe resist temptation. Hawke could never quite tell.

“Stay here,” she said. “As selfish as I am most days, today you go first. Better take off that armor.”

She took the bucket out of his hand and trotted out of the room before he could protest. The part of her that was almost giddy about the idea of the prince undressing in her room was quickly squashed by the other half that remembered his friends and basically adopted mother had just died. _Really not the time, Hawke._

After a few trips with the regular water, Hawke brought up the boiling pots. She dumped them in, then rolled up her sleeve and swirled the water with her forearm. Sebastian was standing by the window, fully dressed. Andraste herself would have had a hard time coaxing him to do anything. So, Hawke would just do it herself.

He had set the bow down at last though. The gleaming weapon was not damaged as the rest of him had been. Perhaps it was the Maker’s hand that kept this prized possession from harm. Or maybe Sebastian was just more willing to get himself hurt than it.

With his back to her, Hawke undid the first strap of his crushed pauldron. If Sebastian was surprised by her gesture he didn't show it. She undid all the buckles up top and followed the line of his arm to undo the elbow gaurd and the vambrace. He let her, and in short order the heavy pieces were off as well as the bracer on the other side. The pauldron would need to be attended to by a craftsman, it was too warped to provide protection for another hit. She wondered at what had happened to the archer and felt guilty for not knowing already.

Next, she tackled the breast plate, quick fingers undoing the straps between his shoulder blades. It all felt so personal, and under different circumstances Hawke would have liked to let her hands linger, tracing the shape of his back. She didn't, just came around to face him, and lifted the piece off his chest. It was bloody and scuffed and the wrongness of it reminded her of Carver's discarded sword laying in the middle of the road from Loathering. If she could just put it all back, fix it to gleaming again.

Now that she was closer, the cut on his face could be better examined. With some fortune, it ran smoothly across his cheek, but was still deep enough to leave a scar. It must have been painful, and Hawke's subsequent thought was of Anders. He would have healed Sebastian in the Gallows because Hawke would have insisted. A look of disgust crossed her face, which did not go unnoticed. Sebastian averted his head so the wound was hidden from her view. She remembered with a quick stab to her guts all the times she’d teased him about being as pretty as a storybook prince. Isabela and even Varric had done it too, though Varric’s barbs weren't driven out of the same place as her comments. And Isabela, well, Hawke would never be as bold as her friend in that regard.

“Let me look,” she urged quietly.

He faced her fully. It seemed as if the bleeding had ceased, and Hawke thought maybe she could fix it. There was enough booze in the house to numb a Qunari and give her courage to do anything. Well, anything short of seducing a prince.

“I believe I can stitch that up for you. It’ll scar though, unfortunately.”

His reply was quiet, but firm in conviction. “It barely compares to the marks you cannot see.”

Hawke took in a deep breath, surprised he spoke at all. And for those words to be his first since what had happened with Anders... She placed a hand on his unbloodied shoulder. No profound words came to mind so she settled on simple.

“I’m sorry, Sebastian.”

“I know, Hawke.”

She gave a gentle squeeze then tried to coax him out of his tunic and shirt. He complied, but she noticed flinching as he lifted his arms over his head. His left shoulder was a mottled blue and purple, bruised from whatever had crushed his pauldron. She carefully touched it, then ran her fingers over the spot, feeling for more serious injury beneath.

“Does it hurt? I mean, other than the bruising?”

“I don’t think anything’s broken.” 

Hawke was often surprised by how lucky she and her friends were in battle. No one had been mutilated or lost fingers on her watch. But then again, most of their losses had been far more grave and still carried around like a phantom limb. Hawke’s whole family was gone. Bethany was still alive out there somewhere, but marked for a death in the deep roads. She and Sebastian were well and truly both orphans now that Elthina was gone too. It was hard to think, hard to believe that a woman with such presence and prominence in the hierarchy of order was erased because someone wanted to make a statement.

 _Fuck Anders_ , Hawke thought viciously. She plucked at the belt before her, hands eager to do something. Sebastian cleared his throat.

Realizing what her idle hands had started doing, Hawke backed up with palms forward pleading mercy, then turned around.

Not wanting the awkward silence to stretch, she filled it. “It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.” It wasn't her wisest decision of the night, though there was still hours left before morning. "Not yours, I mean in general. They all look the same. Seen one you’ve seen them all, I like to say.” 

Hawke groaned out loud and felt herself flush. Avoiding direct eye contact, she slipped out of the room. Water being displaced on the floor was all the signal she needed to gather up everything else.

A few minutes later she returned triumphantly with a bevy of items in her arms and dropped them at the foot of the tub. Sebastian hadn’t really done anything in the water, though there was no soap or a towel so he was stuck at the mercy of a madwoman. She pulled the stool from before her vanity up next to the tub, careful to not glance at something not meant to be seen. A cloth was dipped into the water and then cautious hands began to wipe the blood from around his wound.

“I brought whiskey, if you want it.”

He was suddenly very stiff, as if becoming a statute was a common contagion in Kirkwall and the illness had finally struck.

“No.”

She realized his opposition after the fact. “For your stitches,” she explained. “I’m not going to pretend it isn’t going to hurt like a bitch. Probably better for both of us if we drink something strong.”

He relaxed a bit. “Something else then. Please, Hawke.”

There was always a stiff drink to be found in the Champion’s bedroom. A pilfered chest revealed a bottle of something clear and unlabeled. She took a whiff, then grimaced.

“Well, it smells strong.” She steeled herself, taking a quick breath, then down it went. It was hard to mask the disgusted noise that came out of her, but she handed it to him as if it was precious. Then she shattered the careful illusion with a cough. “Andraste’s tits, why do I have that?”

He took a pull, a shudder rippling through his shoulders, then another drink. He sputtered. “You should probably dump that out.”

“Oh, but it’s working just fine though.” Her blood was warming, a false glow of confidence coming with it.

The actual stitching was fast, and done without much fanfare from either party. A grimace here from both as the needle went into flesh, and then a sigh of relief from Hawke when it was over. A bar of soap was tossed into the tub and supplies were put away, as well as the mystery alcohol. The atmosphere in the room was somber, and Hawke ducked out to gather wood for her fireplace. Everything had been done under the glow of candlelight, which was neither a good idea or a terrible one. It gave a bit of privacy to a very revealing situation.

After the fire was lit, she returned with another filled bucket. The blood was gone from his body, turning the water disturbingly red. Stray droplets of water clung to his chest and shoulders, and Hawke shook her head of its wandering thoughts and chided herself for being insensitive.

“Lean your head back,” she said.

He complied and half a bucket’s worth of water cascaded over his hair. The stool was pulled behind him, and Hawke ran her hands through the wet tresses, long enough to muss, but water was squeezed out instead.

Merrill had once done this for her after a particularly exhausting trip to Sundermount in order to obtain the Arulin'Holm. Hawke had given the tool to Merrill, with some trepidation. It had been one of the few times Sebastian joined them, and he was annoyed with Hawke the entire trip back. Everyone but Merrill had been properly piqued by Hawke’s decision, and Merrill sought to thank her in some small way for the efforts. The elven woman’s quick and slim fingers had massaged her head after washing Hawke’s hair. It had the same effect as scratching Biscuit between the ears. She’d hummed a Dalish tune while doing it, relaxing Hawke to a puddle that simply merged with the water of the tub.

Now, no one spoke as fingers ran over scalp, slowly but with a little pressure. After a moment, Sebastian settled completely back against the tub and set his arms on either edge.

Hawke was in love with him. That she was sure, as sure as the feeling of drawing her sword or calling for another round. She certainly could not imagine doing something this intimate for anyone else, but even now she doubted how right she could be for a man that hesitated upon entering her room. There was never an easy point to tell him how she felt in earnest, especially not now with the whole Chantry exploding bit. Even after they had reached some sort of understanding around their future together as united leaders, though none of it was actually settled yet, she still couldn’t find the courage. It turned out the Champion of Kirkwall was a coward. And a lousy comfort for just a friend. The truth of it suddenly swelled in her breast and she had to look away.  It was too much -- too much for one day so she stood up and bolted to the window. Looking at the city, with smoke and ash and fires still blazing would quell her heart.

It didn’t though, and she braced the windowsill with her blistered hands, the sting pushing to even her out. She told him where there was a towel, and to take the candelabrum with him to mother’s old room when he was ready. He got up, and prepared to leave, her ears pricking at each movement.

“Good night, Hawke.” That hurt voice was killing her a little more each time he spoke. It had perhaps been better before, she thought.

“Try to sleep,” she sighed. “I know it’s hard, but tomorrow we’ll wake up and--.” She didn’t know where she was going. It would still feel like a knife in the chest the next day. Oh, that she knew from experience. 

It was painfully quiet and when it was assured he was gone, Hawke turned around. The armor was still lying on the large chair in the corner where she’d placed it, the bow at her side. He was gone from the room but not really. Truth be told, Hawke always imagined him there anyway. She cursed herself for being a fool, and undressed to bathe in murky waters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, who here knew that candelabra was plural and candelabrum singular? Fun with words!


	3. How did you think it would play out?

“Oh, and then there was the time I commandeered the ship of Antivans headed back to port. I was practically covered in seamen for days. It did wonders for my skin though, all that exertion after weeks of--” 

Hawke choked on her ale, coughing as Isabela continued to deal out cards for Wicked Grace. Varric slapped the Champion on the back. It was the tenth, or maybe eleventh, game of the day. 

“Rivaini, you've gotta think of a more clever act for covering up your dirty dealing.” 

“I don’t understand, I thought cheating was part of the game?” Merrill studied the cards in front of her with an unschooled expression of excitement. 

Isabela set a card in front of Varric, then folded the last into her hand. “It’s nothing Kitten. Varric’s just upset he didn’t see where I stashed the pretty little thing.” 

“I don’t need much of an imagination to guess where.” Varric slid his card off the table and placed it with the other four, revealing nothing about the state of his hand.

“Oh, I might just surprise you.”

“Enough -- let’s begin.” Fenris hit the table with a fist for emphasis, a bottle of wine on the table shaking a little in response. 

They were holed up at The Hanged Man, spread around a table filled with cards, tankards and bottles of wine that were getting dangerously low. It was the middle of summer in Kirkwall, and the friends were drinking and gambling as an excuse to pass the time inside the tavern’s cool interior. Daylight barely filtered in through a few slender windows, and dusty stone walls kept the place bearable in the middle of a Kirkwall heat wave. 

Aveline was missing, on duty in the blistering sun. It reminded Hawke to be grateful for only having to follow her own schedule. Sebastian was at the Chantry, where he’d been loathe to leave since the Nightingale warned Elthina against staying in the city. And Anders, he never came around at all anymore. The mage was either tending patients at the clinic or meeting underground with some unhappy faction or another. So it was just the five of them, shooting the shit. After many rounds, the more impressive piles of coin were stacked in front of Isabela, Varric and Fenris. Hawke was never great at the game, but the sting of losing money was less painful if it was soothed with good company. 

“Hawke, you’re unusually quiet today. What’s got your tongue? Or has it finally dried up from disuse?” Isabela always chattered through the entire game, hoping to trip someone up. “I can fix that for you, just say the word.” 

Hawke looked down to her cards, a set of Serpents, a set of Songs and a Knight. It was an unusually good start. She drew a card -- a Serpent. “Hmm, if I’m ever in the mood I’ll let you know. Right now you’re just distracting and not in good way.” She discarded the Knight. 

“Me? I’m distracting in the best way there is.” 

Hawke harrumphed and waited for her turn again. There was news she wanted to share from when she’d last spoken to Sebastian two days before, and had hoped getting her friends drunk and relaxed would have been the best way about it. She’d been putting it off for hours by this point, and was finally loosened enough to say it herself. After Varric and Isabela took their turns, Fenris pulled a card with a look of severity, as if challenging it to be anything other than he needed. He took the game quite seriously and was bothered by Isabela’s cheating, though enjoyed dealing quite greatly. 

"Actually, there’s something I wanted to tell you.” Her friends all let out a simultaneous, mutinous groan. “It’s good news! I swear it!”

“Unless it has to do with another round,” Varric held up his empty tankard, “I’m keeping expectations low.”

She took a few coins from her dwindling pile, rubbed them between her fingers and flagged the waitress down. “Norah, another round for my thirsty friends.”

Hawke waited for the ale to arrive before divulging, figuring it would probably be received with little to no celebration. However, you’d practically be begging for bad luck if you weren’t at least prepared for a toast. Norah came back with the drinks, setting ale in front of everyone except for Fenris. He received another bottle of red with an obvious wink, which was quite lost on him as deep in his cards as he was. Varric tipped the woman more than the cost of the brew, and Hawke drew another card. A Serpent. She split up her pair of Songs.

“The longer you draw this out the more eager I am to hear it.” Isabela paused, then pointed at Hawke. “You are a tease, I knew it.” 

Hawke sighed. “It’s about Sebastian--”

“Ah, so Choir Boy’s finally found his balls and heading back to Starkhaven. I’ll cheers to that.” Varric and Isabela clinked tankards, foam spilling out from their mugs and onto the deck. Fenris looked positively murderous. Merrill brought her ale up to cheers, and Hawke reached out and pushed it back down. 

“He isn’t-- or he is, but not right away.” 

“How is that any different than before?” Merrill asked, genuinely perplexed. “He’s always about to leave and then never does. It’s like Nesihari in the alienage. She always claims anything is better than staying, but every morning I see her tending to her chickens just the same. And Sebastian doesn’t even have chickens.”

 _He does have Elthina,_ Hawke thought bitterly. She waved dismissively with a hand. “I’ve decided I’m going to be Viscount, and then once Sebastian returns to Starkhaven and regains his throne we’ll get married.” Varric was the one choking on his drink now. Hawke leaned over and thumped on his back. “I’m sure it’s going to take some time, but it’s going to work. I have a good feeling in my gut for once.” It was Hawke’s turn again and she drew from the pile of sodden cards, finding the Angel of Death in her hand. She smirked, then laid it down with confidence. “Ha!”

She expected them to react to the game-ending card, but instead three pairs of disbelieving eyes and one indifferent set met her gaze. “What?” 

“Hawke, not that we’re not simply _overjoyed_ for you, but since when did you actually want to become Viscount? Or become Mrs. Choir Boy?”

“First, I’m not going to be _Mrs. Choir Boy_ \-- I’ll be a Vael, a princess actually--” 

“--You can’t tell me you care about that--”

“--And secondly, who’s better suited to be Viscount than me at this point? I’m the only one sticking up for this blighted city while Orsino and Meredith run around trying to prove whose cock is bigger.”

“Mmm, I think I would have noticed that,” said Isabela. 

“Ten sovereigns on Meredith,” Varric chimed in.

“Stop it you two. I’m serious.” Hawke stood up. “Are you so full of yourselves that you can’t see anything outside of what makes you happy? I’m not all about whores or wine and cards, or even drinking, though you tell anyone that and I’ll kill you.”

After a beat or two, Varric replied with real sincerity. “Hawke, I didn’t know. I thought you were joking.” 

While Hawke didn’t run around with a big sign that said ‘I love Sebastian Vael,’ she couldn’t see how her friends missed what she thought was pretty clear interest. It wasn't like she flirted with anyone else. “It wasn’t a joke. So can you at least pretend to be somewhat happy for me?”

“So, that’s no sex from here on out?” Hawke narrowed her eyes at the lascivious pirate. “I can’t believe big girl’s getting it more than you. At least let me buy you a weekend at the Blooming Rose -- consider it an engagement present.” 

Hawke sat back down and cradled her head in her hands. All the drink was suddenly giving her a mind-numbing headache. “Fenris or Merrill, have anything to say before we move past this?"

Merrill toyed with her cards and then her tankard. “I want you to be happy, Hawke. I just would not want you to hope for something that will never be.” Hawke looked up to see Merrill’s wide eyes full with unshed tears. “I know how that feels, to be disappointed in what you most wish for.” She squeezed Merrill’s hand.

“I know, and I really think this will work.”

“Ar las, Falon.” Merrill smiled weakly.

Maybe she was being naive, but Hawke really believed it would happen -- a relationship, marriage. And if belief was all you needed to make something happen, Sebastian had it in spades. Between the two of them, she thought, there had to be enough determination, grit and the Maker’s good graces to achieve their ambitions and be with one another. Yes, Sebastian’s endorsement tipped her onto the side of pursuing the viscountcy, but wasn’t that the point in being partners? To bring each other up to be better? She’d done the same for him by pushing him to take back what was rightfully his. No matter what anyone said, she felt confident about this choice. A choice they’d made together.

Fenris expanded on her little spell of self-assurance. “You are good for one another. I’m happy for you both, Hawke.” Fenris tipped his head towards the Champion, and her heart warmed. At least Fenris wasn’t opposed, not that she imagined he would be.

“I guess I didn’t cheat as well as I thought,” Isabela said. She had finally noticed Hawke’s abandoned cards and plopped her own hand on the table. “Looks like you’ve won this round.” 

Everyone else laid out their hand, no one was close to Hawke’s four Serpents and a Song.

“Well, at least there’s that,” Hawke said, gathering the winning tower of coins with a sweep of both arms. It didn’t feel like much of a victory.  

 

* * *

 

  
Hawke paced her bedroom, wrapping strips of clean linen around her blistered palms. She wove it around and around, over the thumb and under, then tucked the tail end beneath the rest. She was clean, warm in her thick, cotton nightshirt, and uninjured besides her hands. The fighting could have turned out worse, but it still felt like everyone in Kirkwall had been defeated that day. The leader of the Chantry, the Circle and the Templars -- gone, gone gone, and all by her hand, even if the first _was_ _unintentional_ . She really had no clue about what Anders was doing with the ingredients she gathered. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she tried not to cross into bitterness, though it was hard to be truly full of spite when the roof was still standing above your head. _Am I really helping anyone or am I just doing more damage?_  

Her thoughts returned to Sebastian. She’d dismissed him maybe half an hour before, not even opening herself up to be consoling. What did her romantic feelings matter in comparison to his hurt? What kind of a friend did that to an honest, loyal companion who’d showed up and fought despite the collapse of everything they once knew? Hawke’s self-centeredness had suited her well so far in life, getting her and her family out of Lothering, out of Gamlen’s squalid home and into the estate, but she would be miserable and alone if she kept running every time vulnerability showed its face.

 _Your mother would have been disappointed,_ she told herself. That was enough admonishment to get off the bed and to the door. She swung the heavy barrier open, and burst into the hall, ready to make a better version of herself. The house was covered in shadows, and corners with no light, but Hawke could make out a shape lingering in the darkness. A person-sized shape. Years of scrambling to survive told her to prepare for a fight, but of course there was a perfectly good explanation for someone stalking her hallway in the middle of the night. She shoved the pesky instinct aside.

“What is it?” She rushed forward a step, only to be met by the much quicker rogue, finally discernible in the weak light just outside the door. He was wearing only the soft breeches she’d left on the bed for him. It was her own pair, but she and Sebastian were practically the same size, he a little taller.

She reached for his face. “Are you okay? Did your stitches--”

“No, I’m fine.” He clasped her hands, then startled when he found them bound. He wondered at them, rubbing his forefingers over the line on the back of her hand where skin and fabric met. “That’s not true, I-- I don’t know how to--” He closed his eyes and sighed.

“It’s been fifteen years since I came to the Chantry. I was sent here against my will and believe me, I fought against the Maker in my heart every day until Elthina helped me to leave. She said no one should come to the Chantry by the back door.” He shook his head, disbelief that the woman was now at the Maker’s side. “And once I was free, I asked myself if it would be worth it -- _all I had been through_ \-- to go back to the debauchery and gluttony and sin in my heart. I could not return to Starkhaven, so where would I go? What could I do, a spoiled self-righteous prince? Elthina gave me the chance to come to my faith in the Maker honestly, to atone for my wrongdoings and live with a clear conscious. Had my family not been murdered, I would not be standing here, Hawke. I would have been happily inside that building as it was destroyed, taking confessions besides my brothers and sisters.”

Without realizing, Hawke had been holding her breath as he spoke, and let it out with a rush between her lips. “I don’t know if it makes me selfish, but I’m glad you were with me Sebastian.” 

“Hawke,” Sebastian said, drawing both of her hands between his. “I-- I don’t want to be alone.”

“Okay,” she whispered. She tried to turn away, to get busy stoking the fire somewhere downstairs, where they could talk without the presence of a bed looming over them. “Wait and I’ll go tidy up my office, light the fireplace.” He wouldn’t let her go.

“I should have been more clear. I think you need rest as much as I do.” She stared at him, eyes as wide and shocked as Merrill’s had been when she first entered Kirkwall. Her jaw fell slack, and she didn’t have any words for whatever was happening. “Forgive me if I’ve misunderstood, I thought maybe you--” He released her hands and stepped backwards into the darkness.

“No, wait.” She grabbed his wrist and pulled him back to her. The blue of his eyes was so shockingly bright that her heart thumped wildly in response to his gaze. He cocked his head ever so slightly, and she was almost certain he could hear it beating out of her chest.

“I’ve slept by myself every night since coming here, but I was never truly alone. I felt the presence of the Maker as I drifted off, the love of Andraste as I woke each morning, healthy and blessed. But now when I close my eyes all I can see are pillars of red light, the Chantry exploding over and over. I don’t know if it will help, but I can’t entertain these thoughts of doubt in my heart without also tearing it further apart." His voice was breaking. "Soon there’ll be nothing left.”

Hawke sniffed away a tear, cleared her throat of the sudden lump that appeared, and wrapped her arms about Sebastian’s neck. “I would do anything for you. This is the easiest thing you’ve ever asked.” He returned the embrace tightly, arms wound around her waist, and they stood in the flickering, dim light, sheltered by one another for a moment.

She let go first, but held one of his hands to lead him into the room. Hawke wasn’t sure how she was supposed to act, but went straight to her bed. Suddenly it felt too large, too silly with its bed posts and heavy canopy. As if she threw parties in that bed, inviting half the town to cozy up beside her. She wanted to say how he’d been the first person to sleep there, next to her.

Keeping her mouth shut for once, Hawke lifted up the covers with her free hand and crawled underneath. Sebastian released her hand then joined her there. The covers were thrown over, and settled on them both. He laid with his back to her, keeping off the wounded side, and after a few moments, he let out a deep breath, the muscles of his back relaxing. Hawke suddenly had a desire to do something with her idle hands. It was an impulse, an almost buzzing energy that demanded to be spent. She should roll over, face the wall, think of something terrible. A tiny voice in her head told her they _were_ to be married. Eventually. Or at least that was the agreement before -- she suspected he felt conflicted now more than ever. His path was pretty clear from her point of view -- the Chantry was gone, time to get back to Starkhaven -- but knowing Sebastian, he was dealing with internal turmoil because of it.

He was in her bed though. She was doubting herself more than ever before. Why was it that she could make decisions about Kirkwall and matters much bigger than her personal life, but when faced with the simplest choice of whether to reach out or not, she was wracked with indecision? Hawke channeled Bethany, who had such an easy way with affection. Her sister would have been brilliant in a situation like this, always knowing what to say, how to say it. No doubt she’d be giving Hawke an insistent look and telling her to just do something.

She closed the distance between them and scooted close, but not touching. One hand was placed, tentatively, on his back. Sebastian didn’t tense up as she had anticipated. Perhaps he was expecting it, wishing her to do something just as much as she wished it herself. Feeling braver, if not encouraged by the lack of resistance, she did what she really wanted to do, wrapping an arm around him and under his own. Her fingers were splayed across his chest, and her head dipped against the center of his back. He shifted slightly, then moved her arm a little more comfortably. His hand wrapped around her own, and he squeezed it. She was pretty sure it was a little thank you, and her heart expanded in her chest to bursting.

She doubted she could rest, wrapped up with him like that. But she had fought multiple battles that day. Without meaning to, Hawke fell asleep. The rest of her body didn’t care what her heart thought, and it wanted the respite.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm, shameless trope worship here. Sleep together babes! 
> 
> Honestly, poor Seb though. Ugh, first night not sleeping in the Chantry and I'm sure the explosion is just echoing in his ears. Also, Hawke needed to stop thinking about how she felt --it turned out just fine once she did. 
> 
> I hope the tiny diversion with the gang was worth it. :D


	4. Second time's the charm

Hawke woke to a cold nose sniffing between her shoulder blades and little _whoofs_ of hot breath on her neck. Biscuit started investigating her hair, his nose sliding against the back of an ear, and Hawke lifted an arm to lazily bat him aside.

“Quit sniffing me.” 

The dog’s ministrations tickled, leaving her laughing. Knowing he wouldn’t give in until receiving attention, Hawke flipped over and pulled the Mabari into the mess of blankets. She fell backwards, hitting her bedmate on the shoulder. Sebastian let out a little hiss of pain.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She gave Sebastian a sheepish look and scratched Biscuit idly. The large, tan dog wiggled on his back, taking up most of the space on the bed. 

“It’s alright.” He tenderly touched the spot. “ I’m surprised it took this long. You seem to practice swordplay in your sleep.”

Hawke snorted. “The only person I’m used to sharing with isn’t even a person. And then I have to fight for my place.” 

As if proving her point, the Mabari stretched across the covers diagonally, pushing his front paws against Hawke’s leg. Sebastian leaned over her to pat Biscuit on the head. 

“Lucky dog.” 

It was hard to believe he was there in her bed, teasing softly about her sleeping habits. As if the events from the day before had catapulted them to another time; one where Sebastian and Hawke were together, the awkwardness that usually surrounded them completely gone. She sat up carefully, leaning against the headboard to look at him better. The dawn had finally come, cool light filtering through the window providing the Champion with a breathtaking view. Sebastian’s pallor was much better, his golden brown skin glowing in the early sunlight. He was broad shouldered, yet long and lean -- the muscles shaped by years of quickness and fluidity. Not a single strand of auburn hair dared to fall out of place, slicked back as always. Hawke’s own hair was wild, sticking out at all angles like a stray cat. She patted it down, then wiped sleep from her eyes. He seemed untouchable, a veritable prince,  yet the neat stitches that ran across his face and the bruising at his shoulder proved otherwise. 

Hawke’s chest flushed as she studied him. When crystal blue eyes caught her in the act, the yearning to coax him on top of her only intensified. Yet she knew it was hardly fair, seeing as he’d slept next to her for comfort and nothing else.

“So, I’m fairly certain a dragon snuck in sometime last night and sat on my chest. How are you feeling?”

He continued to scratch the dog, but smiled weakly. “Just as sore as you. Thank you for the stitches.” He gestured to his cheek and Biscuit let out a woof of disapproval for the sudden lack of petting. “Sorry, your highness.” Sebastian smoothed his hand over the dog’s head one last time, then eased next to Hawke against the headboard.

“I should thank you for everything else you’ve done and not just last night. Hawke, you’ve been a true friend to me, a gift from Andraste.”

She twisted the bedsheets in her hands. “Sebastian, you don’t have to thank me for anything.”

“I do though.” He took one of her worrying hands between his palms, imploring her to accept whatever he had to say while muddling her thoughts with the contact. “You’ve stood by me when I’ve needed a friend the most. I meant what I said last night. Without you I’d not be here.” He ran a thumb over her scarred knuckles, badges from a life hard won. “You’re the only person left in the world that I care about and I can’t sit here anymore without being assured you know.”

“I’m--”

Hawke squirmed, her bared thing pressing against his clothed one. She felt so warm, unbearably so, but if she threw back the covers her nightshirt would be hitched up indecently high. Her thoughts scrambled between what was right and what she wanted. Her dog was no longer a helpful distraction, already fast asleep. Sebastian had said something like this before, yet without any physical contact, the Chantry standing between them. He’d said she meant the world to him. Marian Hawke was akin to civilization itself, though the corporeal sphere was never what stood in their way.

He continued to wait for her response, always patient when he needed to be, yet full of fiery passion when stirred to action. Oh, how she wanted to provoke that side of him now. But with doubt as her bedfellow, she took the easier path. “I’m sorry you’re stuck with me.” She tried to keep her voice light. “I’m hardly good for anything besides getting revenge, drinking and placing straight stitches.”

Sebastian looked a little disappointed, his brows gathering and eyes darkening. “I know I’ve not been straightforward about how I’ve felt-- feel--” He studied their hands. “Please don’t mar your character on my account. You’re much more than that. You’re the Champion of Kirkwall. You’re Marian Hawke.” She was staring out at nothing now, her eyes large and unfocused.  Sebastian softly moved her chin with the light press of his callused fingertips, forcing her to make eye contact.

“This shouldn’t be about me,” she whispered after a long minute or two.  Then a bit louder, “As a friend I should be focusing on you, helping you heal not concentrating on how I--” His hand cupped her cheek and she rested against it just ever so slightly. She closed her eyes. It was easier to speak without his perceptive gaze piercing her. “When mother died you helped me so much. I should still be thanking you actually. Every day.” She peeked at him through half lidded eyes. He was holding a breath, holding her hand, holding her face. So much of him was attuned to her; a flash of warmth ran from her stomach to her chest. “I care about you, Sebastian. I want to do this right, to be what you need. I just don’t know how to do it like you do.” She caught his eyes again and grinned. “I’m not a Chantry Sister.”

Sebastian chuckled, dropping his hand. “Thank the Maker for that.” He moved to better face her, careful of his injured shoulder. “Have you considered that just being with me is what provides me comfort? Maybe I’m underrating my abilities as a former Brother or overstepping my bounds, but I don’t think that’s why I was so soothing to you, Hawke.” He reddened a little, but didn’t look away as she had done.

“Oh, this feels too soon,” she admitted, flushing from tip to top.

That provoked a laugh out of him. “Too soon? Those are the very last words I expected to hear from you. Haven’t you been trying to coax me into this bed for a long time?”

“This is not how I would have wanted to go about it.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “I meant too soon after--”

“Ah,” he let go of her hand and wiped his face. “I know I’ve been inconstant -- Elthina likened me to a weathervane and aye, it’s true. I wasn’t sure about what was right for Starkhaven, for myself. I wanted a sign from the Maker and pleaded for one.” He tipped his head towards the window. “He does provide.” Every inch of his face spelled regret, and his eyes were filled with a plea for her to understand. “I’m not going to waste any more time, Hawke. How quickly things can change, I need to find strength to change as well and that starts with you.” 

She didn’t need any more convincing. Hawke closed the space between them, moving to her knees and taking him in a tight embrace, straddling his crossed legs. She was wearing nothing besides her nightshirt, and was all too aware of the fabric that just barely came between them. “You really mean it?” She wasn’t sure she would hear the reply outside of her loud heartbeats, her quickened breaths. 

“I deserve that,” he whispered against her hair. His hands smoothed down her sides, resting on her hips and pushing her down. “Everything I said before about us together--” his voice deepened, the brogue strong and thick, “married -- I meant all of it. I wouldn’t dare to look around what’s so clearly in front of me now.”

They both leaned slightly back at the same moment, the heat between them enough to scorch, but Hawke was never afraid of fire. Their eyes met, bright impossible blue on blue, and the flames in her stomach spread to her groin. His hands tightened on her hips, and she pressed herself against him wantonly, feeling the desire on his end as well. Her eyes darted for a moment to watch his lips part, a barely perceptible groan passing through. Her hands wound into his hair, and she angled her head towards his in order to capture the small noise of approval he was making as it left his mouth.

A loud shriek followed by the clattering of metal had the pair turning towards the sound, Sebastian somehow breaking from position to move bodily in front of her. Biscuit was no slouch either, waking up from his peaceful dog slumber with a deep, unnerving growl. He shot out of the bed to investigate, then stopped stiff in his tracks when a slight figure became visible in the doorway.

Orana was looking at the floor, cheeks flushed and blonde hair falling to her face. She knelt to pick up what had fallen -- a serving tray, and spoke hurriedly. “I’m so sorry, the door was open and I thought--. Apologies, mistress.”

The young woman swept up the items she’d brought back onto the tray. Biscuit licked up whatever spilled, then the elf woman’s face once the unexpected treat was gone. Hawke managed to get a grip on reality, nudging Sebastian aside and getting off the bed to help her servant.   

“I’m sorry Orana, I should have realized you were here once Biscuit woke me.” She knelt to help, but everything was already in order. They both stood.

“Do you want me to come back?” Orana was looking anywhere but the bed. “Later?” She tried helpfully. 

“No. We’ll come down and take care of ourselves. I hope you’re all okay? From last night?”

Orana looked at Hawke and curtsied a little. “Yes, mistress, thanks to you of course. We’re already hearing about what you did.”

Hawke patted her on the arm, then sent her off. She took a deep breath, then wheeled around on a heel. Sebastian was still frozen to his spot, shirtless and bothered on her bed. She gave him a toothy grin, and sauntered over. “And things were just getting interesting.” She placed a hand on his chest, feeling his galloping heart. “We should probably get up before you have to pray the rest of the day away.”

Hawke and Sebastian spent the rest of the morning catching up on what they’d been too tired to do the night before. Hawke emptied her tub of its filthy bathwater bucket by bucket, much to the protests of Orana, who wanted to be useful. The Champion wanted everyone else to rest; she was too filled with emotion to sit still. She compromised over breakfast however, allowing Orana to make them buttery scones and tea after the elven woman claimed she was owed due to the mess Hawke had made on her kitchen table.

Sebastian was left in quite the predicament. His shirt was ruined, stained with too much blood, and all of his other clothing was long gone. Hawke realized this with a certain ache, and wished she knew any other men besides dwarves and elves. Even her own shirts were too small, as wide as Sebastian’s shoulders were. Before going out in the city herself to find him something appropriate to wear -- Orana was too shy to be in the same room as him so unclothed --  she remembered there was something that would work folded at the bottom of her armoire.

“Come with me,” she said, pulling on Sebastian’s hand. He was sitting on the settee in her office so Orana could clean up the kitchen without fleeing. She took the stairs two at a time, and tugged him into her bedroom.

“I thought you wanted to keep me from wasting the day away with prayer,” he said teasingly. “Though I can’t say I would mind your change of heart.”

“Glad to hear it.” She smiled back at him, then dropped in front of the large wooden armoire. The Amell crest was carved into the twin doors, and the grand thing always made her clothing smell slightly of oak. “I should be kicking myself for this, but I’m getting you a shirt.” She lifted up several pieces of clothing at the bottom until she found what she was looking for. The beige shirt wasn’t fancy, simple cloth with laces at the neck, but was sentimental. It was half of the set Carver had with him on their flight from Lothering. If anything, it may have been too big for Sebastian, but it was better than too slim or too short. “It was Carver’s,” Hawke explained. “I just didn’t feel right throwing it away when it takes up such little space.”

Sebastian gave her arm a light squeeze, then pulled the garment over his head. It was too long, but that hardly mattered. He tucked the ends into his trousers. “Better?” 

“You know I appreciated the view before. Just minding the sensibilities of more delicate women.” He gave her a hand and heaved her to her feet. Hawke shut the armoire door and then began picking up the archer’s armor from where they’d left it on her large chair. “I’m not sure if we’ll need this or not out in the city, but I’d rather be overly cautious today.” 

They headed back downstairs to begin the process of cleaning and doing what minor repairs they could to their armor. Before she began,  Hawke asked Bodahn to find an urchin to bring each of her friends a message. For a handsome sum of course; the city was still ripped apart and bleeding from the aftermath of the Chantry explosion and even quick street-wise children risked something moving across town.  

Satisfied that her companions would get her note, she and Sebastian sat in her office, Orana having deposited Hawke’s heavy armor there somehow. Hawke suspected Bodahn had helped. Side by side they examined each piece, then wiped them clean of dust and dirt and blood with a stack of rags she kept for this very reason. They worked in quiet companionship, assessing each other’s wear and tear when asked, but otherwise silent. Hawke’s leg was touching his, the warmth there filling her with such perfect contentment. It was the closest they’d ever allowed themselves to sit before that morning, and she couldn’t keep the stupid happy grin off her face. If Isabela could see her now she’d have guessed more had happened then actually did. It was all the same to Hawke.

Sebastian picked up his crushed pauldron with a sigh. He shifted it about in hands, unsure what to do for the sad thing. Hawke glanced from her throat guard to catch his disheartened expression.

“What happened?” She continued her work on the metal, rubbing a spot where blood had caught in the ridges.

“I was distracted,” he admitted. “One of the statues snuck right up on me and picked me up by the arm. Maker help me, if Fenris had not been there...” He shook his head. “Arrows don’t stand much of a chance against stone giants.”

That explained the crushed statue he’d been near in the Gallows. Hawke paused her work and clapped his knee. “Fenris has gotten me out of a bind so many times. I don’t know if I’d dare go anywhere without him. Next time it’ll be men made of metal coming after us -- whatever the universe can dream up I end up fighting it.”

Sebastian rested his hand on hers and leaned back against the settee with the wrecked piece in his lap. “I need to properly thank him.”

“You can tonight,” she shifted back to join him, careful not to jostle his shoulder again. “I’ve sent them all a message, including a few veiled threats about standing me up.” 

“I’m sure they were entirely subtle.” He moved her hand to hold it, entwining their fingers together. “What are you going to tell them?” His voice was soft, cautious. 

“Something I shared before, though no one really took me seriously. Or you.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m going to be Viscount, you’re taking back Starkhaven and we’re going to get married.” Her announcement was rewarded with a gentle squeeze.

“Hawke I want you to know that I never meant to pressure you before, not that I think I have any likelihood pressuring you to do anything you don’t want. But, I truly believe it’s the Maker’s will that you become Viscount.”

“Are you and the Maker on good terms again?”

Sebastian snorted softly in amusement. “If it were that easy. Honestly, I’m having trouble accepting what happened to the Chantry as part of His will, but if I follow that thinking I’m not sure I’ll be much better for it. I have to believe there is a reason even if it isn’t clear to me yet.”

“Tell me about it.” She wasn’t religious, but now that the dust was settling it would be too hard to swallow Ander’s actions without knowing _something_ would change in Kirkwall. And not just for mages or templars, but every Kirkwaller. She hoped that as Viscount she could steer her adopted city and its people in the right direction. “And Sebastian, your confidence in me means more than you know.”

“I think I’m starting to understand.” He raised their joined hands and placed a kiss on her pale, bandaged one.

 

* * *

 

The Hanged Man was extremely busy, its patrons all possessing the same tired, determined expression. Many people had gathered after diligently clearing up rubble hoping for a taste of regularity, despite the newly carved skylight in the tavern’s roof. Apparently, upon entering the establishment the night prior, Varric and the others had been greeted by a massive pile of debris. They’d quickly started to work at removing the chunk of the Chantry and the damage it left in its wake. Of course the sooner it was gone the earlier they could drink, their motivation coming in liquid form. Now the friends were parked around a round table, coins, cards and drinks already flowing. Even Aveline had a decent pile in front of her and a tankard in hand. The imposing woman was still in her guard apparel, though it was hardly a surprise. She spotted Hawke first, and waved her over.

“Hawke, there you are.”

Her companions all looked towards her, some casting more skeptical glances than others when Sebastian came into view just behind. She stopped short of their table and felt her prince come up against her back. She reached a hand back to find his own, which went unnoticed by her crew. Sometimes even the best fighters have blind spots.

“Where were you today?” Aveline asked, eyeing Sebastian suspiciously.

“At home, then we went down to the site to just see it firsthand, you know?” Glum faces looked back and Hawke stepped forward again hoping to squeeze between Varric and Merrill. 

“And what else have you two been doing?” Isabela’s eyebrows waggled. “Kitten, move over so Hawke can sit. She looks ready to give me her money too.”

Merrill moved closer to Varric, the dwarf shielding her cards from his view as she accidentally flashed them, leaving Hawke space to squeeze in next to Fenris on the other side. There was just space for one, leaving Sebastian looming over her, but Fenris shifted so that the man could sit too. It put him practically in Isabela’s lap, but surprisingly neither one of them seemed to mind. Fenris appeared a bit less broody than usual, not frowning over the interruption to his game, and Hawke had to keep herself from saying something terribly teasing. _First things first._

“You remember how to play Choir Boy? Or is there too much lying involved for your taste?”

Hawke whipped her head towards the dwarf. “Andraste’s tits, Varric.” Sebastian placed a hand on her back.

“Lying’s only necessary if you’re not good enough to win on your own merits. And if I remember correctly I won honestly last time I was here.” Sebastian spread his hands with palms up. ”I’ve found myself as of recent without even an empty coffer to my name and am ready to collect.”

Merrill let out a little squeak, “You don’t think he meant--”

“Okay, all, let’s move on. Varric, Sebastian hasn’t been here in a while, Merrill that was a reference to the Chantry. Isabela, you’re not entirely wrong.” 

Isabela practically cooed, sitting forward with both elbows on the table and a sinister smile crossing her lips. “You didn’t! Did he praise your Maker? Dampen your divine? Explore your Deep Roads? Board your vessel?"*

Hawke laughed as Sebastian shook his head, a little smirk revealing his true thoughts. “Not that I’d tell you anyways, but no.”

“Well. A girl can still fantasize.”

“What did you mean then, Hawke?” Aveline was still taking Sebastian’s measure, trying to assess if there was any need for damage control.

Hawke blew a strand of hair out of her eyes and placed a clenched fist on the table. “We’ve been here before, but dammit, tonight we’re celebrating.” Isabela signaled down a waitress and asked for another round with a wink. Sebastian and Hawke had a wordless exchange, her eyes softening as he gave her an encouraging look. It was time to put all her cards on the table.

The drinks came and Hawke raised her tankard high. “I have a few words.”

Varric chuckled. “Just a few?”

“Really Varric, I’d think you of all people would appreciate an eloquent toast spoken by the hero of the tale.”

Fenris sighed and looked to Sebastian for commiseration. “I would not mind this speech before I’m too old to hear.”

“And your hair’s already white,” Merrill pointed out.

Hawke’s bark of laughter carried across the full room, a few strangers turning to regard them. “Okay, okay,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye. “Here it goes.” She stood up and raised her ale again as the rest followed suit. “First, to the best companions a girl could ask for. I wouldn’t be where I am today without each of you and that’s the honest truth -- Varric, be sure to write that part down. Secondly, to conquering demons and nug-shit crazy templar women. I care about this terrible, rat-infested place and it was my privilege to defend her honor alongside all of you. And finally, to my future husband and prince.” She turned to face Sebastian, nervous but positive energy in her veins. “Here’s to all our tomorrows together. Tonight we’ll celebrate the best we can and when we wake the rest of the world will endeavor to keep up with us.” His eyes filled with what Hawke would have described as love, wide and bright and free of conflict. He smiled at the familiar refrain and took her free hand with his own. Hawke forced herself to look away, back at the rest of party, and finished the toast. “Here’s to all of us and to surviving to see another day despite everything in our way. May you never stumble or fall, but know I’ll always be there to pull you up if you do. I love you, each and every one of you weirdos. Now drink!”  

Six tankards of ale and a bottle of red wine clinked together above a table filled with coins and cards. The companions all took long swigs of their drinks, enjoying the reward for whatever price of pain they’d paid. Hawke finished first for once, content to watch her ragtag group of people. Everyone smiled and laughed and clapped one another on the back.

“And about the Viscountcy? Will you finally take it on?” Aveline had such faith in Hawke, even when the Champion tested the limits between what was lawful and what was for the greater good.

“Yes, I think it’s time I did something besides picking up my sword and ending fights. I think a nice cushy office job sounds just about right.”

Sebastian smirked. “As if you’d ever stop. Andraste preserve me.”

“Don’t start lying now, prince, you love that about me.” She gave his shoulder a little shove.

“Aye, I do. But I never denied it and won’t ever lie to you. In that I’ll never waiver.”

Before Hawke could offer another quick retort, Sebastian stole the tankard from her grip and set it on the table. He then took her chin in his hand and before she could possibly anticipate what was next, leaned in and finished what they’d been about to do that morning. His lips met hers with the passion she had wished for, purging every repentant moment out of his system at once and replacing it with a kiss so honest and promising she lost her mind. Her hands came to his hair, which she was always dying to muss with her fingers, and deepened the kiss by opening her mouth to him. Both of his hands moved to cup her face and he showed her why he’d been sent to the Chantry in the first place, melting women until they were weak in the knees and soft everywhere for him. She was putty, and pliant, words no one would ever think to use to describe Marian Hawke. They were tangled up, taking and giving equally until she couldn’t breathe, but Hawke couldn’t care if she took another solid breath because finally his mouth was on hers, his tongue darted between her lips and it was worth the wait.

They finally broke away from the kiss, panting and chuckling between breaths, still holding one another. Hawke turned her head to see the reactions from the others, and for once, no one spoke. Not even Varric or Isabela could summon the words to express the shock that was clear on their faces.

“If that’s all I had to do to keep Varric quiet, I should have tried it long ago," Sebastian said.

“I know,” agreed Hawke, leaning her forehead against his. “But you better believe we’re going to be perfecting the method. Lots of testing and practice from here on out.” They kissed once more, softly and much more swiftly.

Hawke turned to her companions, grinning like the cat that’s caught the mouse. “Now who’s ready to celebrate!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL that was one looong last chapter! I hope you liked it this little fic. I'll definitely be revisiting these two because I love them so and it is honestly just getting good. :D
> 
> *If you look up Isabela's dialogue with Aveline, she asks her about Donnic and there's a laundry list of euphemisms for sealing the deal. The first three are from that list, and I can't believe "board your vessel" wasn't on there too. Pirate jokes! She so would!


End file.
